


Beast of Burden

by Lunar_Pull



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Sastiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5787874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Pull/pseuds/Lunar_Pull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens is after Dean Winchester's funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beast of Burden

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the finale of season 7.

 

The first time it happens is after Dean Winchester's funeral. His untimely death (or disappearance, rather) after successfully killing Leviathan kingpin, Dick Roman, is something Castiel, angel of the Lord, and Sam Winchester, ex-blood junkie, are ill-equipped to deal with. Together, they scour the country for any signs of Dean's whereabouts. Castiel swallows his pride and attempts to return to Heaven hoping to find Dean's soul among the saved. But Dean is not there and Castiel is punished severely for his transgression against the order of Heaven by having his grace unceremoniously ripped out.

 

Sam is shocked to find Castiel suddenly back in their dingy motel room, his signature beige trench coat stained with mud and blood. He moves quickly to catch Castiel before he collapses, placing him gently on one of the twin beds. A growing pool of blood stains the bedspread beneath Castiel and Sam gingerly turns him over, loudly hissing in sympathy when he finally sees the wound. On Castiel's shoulder blades, there are two distinct bloody stumps, gaping open, still pumping out crimson. Sam knows instantly that this is all that is left of Castiel's mysterious wings.

 

He cleans and binds the wounds as best he can and two weeks later, when Castiel is almost fully healed, they take off in Dean's '67 Impala to continue their search.

 

Six months after Dean's disappearance, Sam and Castiel decide to give him a place to rest. There is no body to burn in the tradition of hunters so, instead, they buy him a simple headstone next to their mother's grave. The engraving reads _Dean Winchester, a good son, a righteous man._

 

Sam kneels by the twin graves for what seems like hours, his blue jeans will be stained with green grass when he finally stands. His face is somber and hard like the gray stone slabs before him. Castiel stands a few feet behind, unmoving. They are alone; there is no one left to mourn Dean. Not even Bobby, now.

 

That night, Castiel is surprised when Sam pulls the Impala up to a dive roadside bar instead of heading back to their motel room.

 

“I need a drink,” Sam declares when he notices Castiel's head tilt. Angel or not, he is still ethereal in his graceful movements.

 

Sam orders too many shots of alcohol in a thinly veiled attempt to drink himself into oblivion. Castiel joins him on his bender, forgetting that he is no longer endowed with the absurd angelic tolerance for liquor, and soon his head is spinning. After hours in the bar, they stumble back to their motel room. Castiel chastises Sam for driving while intoxicated, despite the shortness of the drive.

 

“I'm not 'intoxicated,' Cas,” Sam says as he shuts the door loudly and then screams acidly. “I'm fucking wasted!”

 

“Sam, stop screaming,” Castiel says, the words slurring. He tries to find a spot to focus his eyes and force the room to stop whirling around him like a tornado. His eyes finally come to rest on the looming figure of Sam.

 

Sam is standing stock still in the middle of the gaudy room, eyes dark and desperate. His breathing is ragged and Castiel thinks for a moment that Sam is going to pass out. He wonders if he is quick enough to catch the larger man before he topples over. Castiel doesn't get the chance to find out. He barely has a second to register that Sam is stalking straight for him before he feels Sam's mouth on his.

 

The kiss is hard and sloppy; both men taste of whiskey, tequila and grief. Castiel kisses back hungrily, surprising himself, and lets Sam lift him up by his thighs to shove him harshly against the wall. Castiel's vision goes black for a second and when he opens his eyes again he swears there are two Sams grinding their pelvises against his groin. Though he is hurting, Castiel bucks against Sam's hard body, eager for the friction.

 

Castiel lets out a soft yelp when Sam bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and retaliates by biting down on the sensitive area where Sam's neck meets his shoulder.

 

“Cas...” Sam groans and goes still for a moment, contemplating. Slowly, he lets Castiel down and the fallen angel stands on his own two feet again. Sam pulls back, the hazel of his eyes meets the unearthly blue of Castiel's and they stare.

 

This is the moment when they should turn back.

 

The only sound now is their hard panting, like they've just run a marathon. What breaks them is a simple thing. Innocuous, really. Sam runs his fingers through his hair to push it away from where it has fallen on his forehead. Castiel licks his lips as his eyes follow the seemingly innocent movement. And then,Castiel is grabbing the back of Sam's head to pull him down closer. They are tugging off their clothes quickly, tripping over each other in a tangle of apparel and limbs and then they are falling on the bed and Sam is maneuvering their writhing bodies so that he is on top of the fallen angel.

 

The rest of the night is a blur of muscle on muscle, lips on lips, breath on breath. Hushed moans and the creaking of the bed fill the small room and when Sam finds the spot inside Castiel that makes him let out an ungodly cry, it doesn't take long for Sam to tumble over the edge and come hard.

 

Both men lay out of breath, bruised and bleeding. Sam pretends he didn't hear Castiel whisper 'Dean' as  he came.

 

They shower separately. They sleep on the opposing twin beds. They never talk about that night.

 

* * *

  


The next time it happens, it starts with Sam accidentally hitting a stray dog. Two months have passed. Sam and Castiel are still searching for Dean, despite having 'buried' him. Garth has called Sam to ask for his help on a case. He calls Sam the demon expert, which makes him cringe inwardly, but he agrees to help nonetheless. _Anything that might bring us closer to finding Dean,_ Sam says to Castiel. What he wants more urgently is to escape the tension that settles between them on these long, seemingly pointless drives across the expanse of midwestern landscape.

 

It is precisely his preoccupation with the awkwardness between himself and Castiel that he doesn't notice the golden retriever wander into the dark road until a fraction of a second too late. He hits the brakes and swerves sharply, tires screeching, and his heart sinks at the sickening _thump._

 

About twenty minutes later, Sam is rushing into a veterinarian office with Castiel trailing behind him, screaming for help.

There is about an hour of stressful waiting; Sam refuses to leave until he knows the dog's condition. They sit side by side in a sunny yellow waiting room, Sam's elbows resting on his knees, which are shaking nervously and Castiel rigid, his back straight and his mind far away.

 

When a slight woman in a lab coat, obviously one of the main veterinarians at the practice, finally emerges, Sam all but jumps out of his chair. The woman smiles up at Sam as they converse. Castiel remains seated and watches their interaction. The woman is pretty, he thinks, and he can tell that Sam does, too. Sam's shoulders relax visibly as the woman places her hand on one so Castiel guesses it must be good news. He wants to leave now and get back to their mission but Sam seems taken with the woman's shock of curly, light brown hair and pouty pink lips. Castiel feels a pang of jealousy and visibly frowns, confused by his possessiveness of yet another Winchester boy.

 

It is only when Sam turns around that Castiel can see his somber face and he realizes that the friendly pat the woman gave Sam was not a flirtation, but a comfort. He sees the loss in Sam's eyes.

 

When sleep threatens to overpower them they decide to find a motel for the night.

 

“Garth can wait one more day,” Castiel says helpfully. Sam only nods in response.

 

They enter the cheap motel room slowly, like they are wading through quicksand. Sam is heavy with gloom and Castiel thinks about how out of place he looks, a gentle giant sulking in a garishly-decorated turquoise room. Sam's shirt is still stained with blood.

 

Castiel is surprised when Sam doesn't immediately lie down on his bed. Instead, he goes over to Castiel's bed and sits on the edge. Castiel is resting his back against the headboard, legs completely on the bed and crossed. When he notices Sam's trembling shoulders, he opens his arms slightly. Sam doesn't need another invitation. He slides into the small bed, head resting on Castiel's chest, arm slung around the former angel's waist and long legs dangling off the bed.

 

“He's gone,” Sam whispers as he burrows his face into Castiel.

 

Castiel can feel Sam's hot tears staining his white shirt and knows that Sam is not talking about the dog. Sam is too busy with the overwhelming emotion—finally letting himself be overcome by his grief—to think about the strangeness of it all. This is the second time in his life that he has sought comfort in Castiel and the first time that their touch has been careful and tender. The fallen angel lets Sam sob quietly, alternating between softly stroking Sam's long chestnut-colored hair and rubbing small circles on his back. Where he had learned to provide comfort with touch, in the way favored by humankind, Castiel couldn't say. Perhaps his jarring Fall had something to do with it. He is human now, after all. He is subject to human instincts.

 

“I know,” Castiel confesses. “I know.”

 

They fall asleep holding each other.

 

When Sam awakes, it is not yet dawn. He looks up at Castiel's sleeping figure and feels a wave of affection course through him. He admires Castiel's sharp cheekbones, full lips and messy, black hair. There is no alcohol in his system to blame this time. Sam leans up and places soft kisses on Castiel's face. He kisses the smaller man's forehead, brows, the tip of his nose, cheeks. He presses his mouth against Castiel's face lightly, afraid to wake the other man and be caught in his transgression. When Sam kisses Castiel's eyelids, they flutter open like they have been waiting for him to bring them to life.

 

Sam continues kissing after a tense heartbeat and Castiel immediately kisses back, fueled by his earlier bout of jealousy and a growing need to make Sam his. Their mouths finally meet and this time, it is soft, airy kisses instead of angry ones. Castiel moves his hand to cradle against Sam's cheek, still stained with tears. Sam shifts so that he's straddling the smaller man and runs his hands over Castiel's neck and shoulders.

 

Castiel lets out a moan as Sam's hand begins to knead his shoulders and Sam wonders if Castiel has ever felt the pleasure of a back massage. He works the muscles on Castiel's shoulders with his large hands as he deepens their kiss. He gasps when he feels Castiel's hands venture down the length of his back and settle gently on his ass.

 

Like a fire has been lit inside, Sam kisses Castiel more desperately now, tongue darting over Cas' plump lips before he feels Castiel open for him. Their tongues snake around each other, a battle for control that Castiel is more than happy to let Sam win.

 

Then, Castiel is pushing Sam off of him. Sam flops backwards onto the bed and resigns himself to the fact that the moment has passed. _This is enough_ , he thinks. Castiel, a former warrior of God, has allowed him to use his body to grieve. He has let him seek closure in soft kisses, a few minutes of Heaven in the never-ending pain that is life without Dean. And it has been enough.

 

Castiel is towering over him, impossibly blue eyes boring into Sam's core.

 

They fall asleep separately on the twin beds. They do not talk about it.

 

* * *

 

The third time it happens is after a particularly successful hunt, a month later. With the gates of Heaven effectively closed to Castiel, he and Sam team up to continue what Dean Winchester once aptly referred to as the family business _._ Their current mission is to find Kevin Tran, prophet of the Lord and formerly an Advance Placement student, who has been leaving panicked voicemails on Sam's phone. He has escaped the King of Hell, Crowley, (who knew he was even kidnapped?) and Sam feels a responsibility for the teenager and his safety.

 

They are having a hard time tracking the young boy down, though, which is why they let themselves be easily distracted by a grisly string of murders in a small town near the motel room they decided to stop at for the night.

 

All the victims have their organs—hearts, in particular—ripped out of their chests and Sam's instinct are dead-on: a werewolf. They track the suspect to a bar and lure him out back. Cas' cunning and Sam's brute strength are an unstoppable force against the supernatural creature and they are riding the high of their victory when they stumble back into the motel room.

 

“Cas, the way you held that guy down? That was incredible! I didn't think you were still that strong!” Sam is practically beaming.

 

“I suppose I still have some vestiges of my old power,” Castiel responds with a smile, his voice like gravel.

 

“I'm sorry,” Sam's brows furrow. “I didn't mean to remind you--”

 

“It's okay, Sam, ”Castiel cuts him off. “Really,” he says sincerely.

 

Sam smiles and sits down on the corner of the bed and begins to untie his boots. He winces as he leans down.

 

“Sam?”

 

“I think I underestimated how hard that werewolf hit me,” Sam confesses, holding his side.

 

Castiel walks over to him and crouches in front of him. “Well, you did fly across the parking lot.”

 

“Yeah, that'll do it.”

 

“Let me see it,”Castiel says as he helps Sam gingerly remove his t-shirt to reveal a large, darkening bruise along his rib cage.

 

He reaches up to touch the mark, but pulls his hand back, fearing what the sensation of Sam's warm skin against the palm of his hand will do to him. But it is too late because Sam saw the moment of hesitation. The corners of his mouth perk up as he pulls Castiel up to meet his mouth in a kiss. Castiel doesn't know if it's the adrenaline coursing through his veins or the tightness in his chest, but he finds himself smiling against Sam's mouth as he reaches his hand around, ghosting over the broad expanse of Sam's back and finally resting once threaded in his mane.

 

Sam groans at the sensation and lifts Castiel awkwardly onto the bed, his usual strength tempered by his injury. They collapse tactlessly onto the bed in a fit of laughter and a flurry of kisses.

 

For the rest of the night, they explore each other's body languidly. Their rhythm fluctuates from frenzied and passionate to slow and lazy but there is no hurry. Their mouths and cocks rub together and they moan into each other. Both men wrestle and relinquish control to the other, making their coming together a dance, rather than a battle. Castiel sucks on a spot right between Sam's shoulder and neck—the one he found the first night—and makes Sam weak in the knees. Sam discovers that Castiel nearly screams every time he dips his mouth to the former angel's ear and whispers _Cas_ before nibbling lightly on his earlobe _._

 

Their unhurried exploration of each other is tender and sweet but ends abruptly when Sam attempts but fails to penetrate Castiel. There is no slick or assistance of alcohol and desperate sorrow this time, so despite Sam's diligent preparation with shaky fingers both men are too inexperienced to figure it out. They settle on making out like it's their last night on earth and using their hands to get each other off.

 

 _Like fucking teenagers,_ Sam thinks fondly as he smiles against the top of Castiel's head.

 

They awake in each other's arms. They don't talk about it.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later, Sam is drumming on the steering wheel as a familiar tune by The Rolling Stones is streaming from the speakers.

 

 _“I'll never be your beast of burden_ _  
_ _My back is broad but it's a hurting_   
_All I want is for you to make love to me_.”

 

Sam lets himself quietly sing along, voice barely above a whisper, and he's so caught up in Mick Jagger's crooning that he's surprised to find the fallen angel smiling fondly at him when he steals a glance at the passenger side of the car. Sam feels his cheeks flush red and opens his mouth to blurt out an awkward apology but Castiel cuts him off.

 

“Next time, we should use lubrication.”

 

Sam's mouth hangs open in shock but just as quickly, a wide smile spreads across his face and Castiel is reminded of the way that from outer space, the sun rising over the Earth looks like it could either destroy or illuminate all of existence.

 

* * *

 

It happens again. And again. And again.

 

In between hunts and their mission to find Kevin, both men barely notice that they have stopped looking for Dean. Instead, they find comfort in each other's bodies. They learn each other kinks and weaknesses and stop paying for rooms with double beds.

 

Castiel sometimes wonders if this is what it would have been like with Dean. Sometimes, Sam is in  a particularly dark mood and drinks too much and he handles Castiel a bit rougher than he'd like, and that reminds him of Dean. But then in the morning, he is there, kissing the small bruises and whispering apologies over his skin and Castiel's heart swells with forgiveness.

 

Sometimes, Sam is reckless during a hunt, like Dean used to be, and Castiel screams and yells at him to _be more careful_ and Sam retorts to _back off_. In these times, they sulk on opposite ends of the room and Castiel thinks about how Dean had once been so cold and unforgiving. But Sam stands up and in one fluid motion is in his personal space, holding him tight against the hard line of his body and he feels the warmth of Sam's soul.  

 

Dean had once complained about the former angel's lack of respect for personal space, but Sam seems to relish it. When Sam turns from the bathroom mirror to find Castiel looking at him in awe, he smiles his easy smile and pecks a kiss on his forehead or musses his dark, short hair with a large hand.

 

Castiel had only one experience with Dean, years ago. It was a night they thought for sure would be his last on earth and when the plan at the whorehouse backfired, Dean had bravely taken matters into his own hands. They'd both felt the tension for a while. Both had managed to convince themselves for a good amount of time that the tightness in their chests' was a result of the profound bond that an angel had formed with a human soul while remaking the human body from the ground up. But something about the electricity in the air that night, the way Dean doubled over in laughter at Castiel's antics, the way he looked at him with a fondness he'd never felt before, broke them.

 

Their night together was rough and anxious and though Castiel enjoyed the feeling of Dean possessing him wholly more than anything, the encounter was tinged with shame. Castiel was an angel of God, defiling himself with filthy human baseness. Dean Winchester was the ultimate, sweet-talking ladies' man, finding himself falling for a man. Well, an angel in a human vessel, but a _male_ human vessel. They never spoke of that night and Dean seemed to pull away. There had been brief, shining moments of friendship but nothing more, not since.

 

And then there was Sam. Castiel remembers being startled when first meeting Sam. He'd expected a demon blood junkie to look, well, hideous. Instead, Sam's soul shone brightly through dark pieces. His soul looked like a onyx statue being burst apart by a white light. Sam was the Big Bang, a bright burst cutting through the darkness.

 

 _God_ , the Winchesters.

 

The Righteous Man, a brilliant soul marred only by its own self-doubt and the Boy King, the one with the demon blood whose soul could not be fully tarnished.

 

Castiel is thankful that he has kept one angelic ability despite his Fall. He realizes now, as Sam thrusts earnestly between his legs, that he can still see souls if he concentrates hard enough.  So when he looks up at Sam, Castiel sees more than a bronzed, muscled body and a mop of messy, brown hair hiding hazel eyes. He sees more than a perfect mouth parted slightly, beckoning his own pink lips to rise up to cover it. What Castiel sees is charred, coal pieces being shaken off with each hard shove into him, revealing pure, white light.

 

Castiel moans at the sight and the sensation. He suddenly realizes that he hasn't told Sam about his remaining angelic gift. Surely, he'd love to know about it. He would probably stop pumping away and say something boyish and endearing like _wow, Cas, that's fantastic,_ before flashing him that easy, toothy smile of his—the one that lights up his whole face—and leaning down to kiss him deeply.

 

“Sam.”

 

Sam continues pounding into him, making the headboard bang against the wall.

 

“Sam,” Castiel tries again, attempting to keep a groan out of his voice as he feels Sam getting closer to the spot that makes him light-headed and crazy.

 

“Sam!”

 

“Cas, I love you, but if you don't shut up—” he doesn't finish his threat as a grunt escapes his lips during a particularly deep thrust.

 

Sam feels Castiel's body go limp under him and he opens his eyes to look down at the smaller man. “What is it?” he asks, shaken out of his lust-driven haze, voice now full of worry.

 

“What did you just say?” Castiel asks, mouth agape.

 

Sam frowns, trying to understand Castiel and then a slow grin spreads across his face as realization dawns. He dips down to cover the fallen angel's face with his own and all Castiel can see is long hair falling over him, gently ghosting over his face, and intensely dark eyes. Then Sam is at his ear, nibbling lightly in that way that makes Castiel's cock give a twitch before he hears the words whispered against ear.

 

“I love you.”

 

The words hang in the air for a few moments. Sam has gone still inside Castiel, eyes searching his face for some sort of affirmation. Sam is gazing at Castiel with such devotion and sincerity and suddenly Castiel feels the pain of losing Dean washing over him again, like a flood. He can't bring himself to say it back.

 

Sam's face turns somber after a few minutes and he pulls out of Castiel slowly. Castiel winces at the loss and opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. Sam is shaking his head to himself as he walks—naked and divine—to the bathroom door and slams it shut.

 

They don't sleep together that night. Sam opts for curling himself up uncomfortably in a tiny armchair by the TV in the motel room. They don't talk about it.

 

* * *

 

 

If Castiel is honest with himself, he knows he loves Sam. He doesn't know how it happened or where it started, but the younger Winchester's sweetness and intelligence has won him over. He also knows that he once loved Dean. He adored Dean in all his tortured glory for so long that he didn't even care if Dean ever expressed interest. He just wanted to be beside him. Which is why it feels like a betrayal every time Sam reaches over and holds his hand; makes Castiel smile while they are cruising in _his_ car.

 

Of course, Sam doesn't do that anymore. Not since the night that Castiel had been a coward. Now, he barely smiles and his frustration at failing to find Kevin like he failed to find Dean is driving him insane. He barely sleeps, spending most of the night researching on his laptop and ignoring Castiel when he asks him to get some rest.

 

 _Come to bed_ , Castiel pleads. He doesn't specify which bed. Sam doesn't answer.

 

During the day, Sam is talkative about possible cases and Kevin's trail, but no mention of what has transpired between them. In the nights, there is silence and the soft sound of keyboard clicks.

 

Castiel misses Sam more than he thought it possible to miss someone who was still there. He misses the way Sam placed his hand protectively on the small of his back when they entered a bar.  The way he sometimes snuck quick kisses onto his mouth as they sat across from each other at diners. The way that in the triumphant moment after a successful hunt, Sam would put his hand on the back of his head and bring their foreheads together. Sam didn't care what anyone thought. His guilt had nothing to do with internalized homophobia and rest solely on the knowledge that he was currently fucking his dead brother's guardian angel. Even that shame had begun to die down and Castiel was starting to see even more onyx pieces being blown off his statuesque figure.

 

That is, until that night. Now, Sam is dark and distant and brooding again and Castiel is trying to find the right words to convey his emotions.

 

“I slept with Dean,” is what comes out of Castiel's mouth instead of the intended, _I love you, too._

 

“Jesus, Cas,” Sam chokes on the black coffee he's been sipping quietly in the booth of yet another small town diner. He shifts in his chair uncomfortably and ignores the slight frown Castiel gives him at his small blasphemy.

 

“When?” Sam asks after the few minutes of silence in which he wipes his mouth and shirt with a napkin.

 

“Before we trapped Raphael,” Castiel explains, but stumbles when he adds, “We thought I was going to die the next day.”

 

“Well, that's just great,” Sam finishes darkly, staring intensely into his coffee before downing the rest in a single gulp. The bitterness going down his throat settles in his stomach, churning in sympathy with the emptiness in his heart. He looks up, hoping against hope that Castiel's soul-crushing stare won't meet his but feels a jump in his chest when it inevitably does. Sam is torn between his desire to grab the back of Castiel's head and kiss him senseless, in front of all the bigoted patrons in the diner, in front of the whole world, and his desire to smash the former angel's forehead against the linoleum table between them.

 

Sam knows that he is heartbroken. He had whispered his darkest secret in his lover's ear—the secret that had been steadily building for what seemed like an eternity, but was really only months—and had been met with a silence that spoke volumes. The pain in his chest is all too familiar and a flash of Jess' burning body writhing on the ceiling crosses his mind before he pushes it down.

 

Yet it's different because Castiel is not gone. He's sitting right across from him, hands folded neatly in his lap, wearing a flannel button-down shirt Sam eagerly let him borrow when he grew tired of his 'holy tax accountant' get-up, and looking at him with sorrowful eyes.

 

Sam sighs and leans back, resting his arm on the back of cherry-red pleather seat in a way that would look suspiciously like an invitation to join him if Castiel had not known better. He runs his other hand through his hair, a smooth and casual movement that Castiel knows is actually a nervous tick. The motion makes his heart flutter regardless.

 

“I knew...” Sam begins, “I knew what you felt for him. Or what you _feel_ for him, I guess. I just didn't think...I didn't think he'd ever reciprocate.”

 

Castiel considers his next words carefully before finally speaking. “He didn't. It was just the one time.”

 

Sam sighs again, obviously exasperated. “I'm not your replacement, Cas,” he declares loudly enough for a few customers to give them puzzled looks.

 

Sam stands up quickly, throwing a few bills on the table before storming out of the diner. Castiel follows quickly, struggling to keep up with the long strides Sam is able to make when he is truly in a hurry.

 

“Sam, wait!” he calls out, hoping to stop him. But Sam doesn't. He walks faster.

 

When Sam finally reaches the Impala, he paces back and forth in the vacant parking space next to the car and waits for Castiel to catch up.

 

“You know what?” Sam says through his teeth when Castiel arrives, trying to avoid losing his cool, “My entire adult life has been spent being used like a goddamn puppet by _things_ like you.”

 

The fallen angel's eyes narrow at the word but his gaze softens when Sam stops pacing and faces him fully.

 

“Angels and demons. Prodding me and my brother like goddamn cattle in your sick, twisted game. But I thought you were different. _We_ thought you were different. But you did the exact same thing, Cas. You lied to us, you used us.”

 

“Sam, I'm sorry,” Castiel begins, anxious to make Sam stop speaking.

 

“No, Cas, no,” Sam continues his tirade. “After all that, I believed in you. I thought you were still one of us, even with all those Leviathan inside you, even when you were stark-raving crazy, for fuck's sake! _I_ believed in you. _I_ forgave you for lying to us about raising me out of Hell, for pulling down Death's wall, for trying to become God! For everything, Cas, even when Dean couldn't.”

 

Sam pauses to rub his chin in frustration and Castiel lets out the breath he's been holding.

 

“Screw you. You're pathetic. You're so caught up pining after someone—a dead man, I might add—that you can't see that it wouldn't even matter if he were here.”

 

Cas shoves Sam violently against the passenger side of the Dean's beloved car and from his periphery, he can see customers streaming out of the diner to stare at the scene they are causing.

 

“He would have never loved you,” Sam spits out venomously and he forcefully shoves the slighter man away from him.

 

Cas stumbles back but regains his foothold quickly.

 

“You want to know what's actually _really_ pathetic?” Sam asks, lowering his voice and straightening his shirt. Castiel feels his anger drain away when he hears the defeated tone of Sam's voice.

 

“When you first showed up, after you rescued Dean from Hell, you know what I thought? I thought: why not me? I had faith for so long. I believed when Dean didn't. So, why not me? But I guess we know the answer to that, huh.”

 

Sam refuses to look into Castiel's heavenly gaze as he walks over to the driver side of the Impala and climbs in, shutting the door with a loud slam. Castiel remains, uneasily shifting his weight from one foot to the other, making no move to join Sam in the car.

 

“Get in the car,” Sam commands in a gruff voice that reminds him of his father and shocks Castiel out of his stupor.

 

When he slides into the passenger side, Sam says in a soft voice, “Just forget it, okay, Cas? Just forget it all.”

 

Silence settles in on the long drive towards Iowa, where they have finally located Kevin Tran. They don't talk about it anymore.

 

* * *

 

Castiel doesn't forget about it. The hours roll by with the passing Autumn landscape and the hunter and fallen angel remain silent. Castiel pretends not to notice that the atmosphere is strained, despite the passage of time. And that Sam is still gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white.

 

Castiel knows that a misplaced sense of loyalty to Dean is only one of the reasons he feels hesitant. Sam scares him.

 

Despite his brilliant soul, there is a darkness in Sam that Castiel is not sure comes entirely from the corruption of demon blood. He can see it in the way Sam revels in a fresh monster kill a bit too joyously and the way his eyes go dark with want when he drunkenly manhandles Castiel. He tries to convince himself that it is the residual effects of being soulless for a year and feels the guilt turn a knot in his stomach as he braves a glance in Sam's direction. Sam is staring ahead, eyes focused on the road, ignoring him.

 

The most frightening thing about Sam's darkness is that Castiel finds himself drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It is different than the pull of Dean's self-loathing and doomed quest for morality in a lawless universe, which made Castiel want to gather him in his arms and soothe away the pain of disappointment. Sam has a quiet confidence and a recklessness -especially when it comes to their sexual encounters - that sets Castiel's blood on fire. Sam pulls him into tiny bathroom stalls and kisses him breathless until Castiel lowers himself to his knees to worship him. Sam grunts and moans loudly in their motel rooms, undeterred by the knocks against the wall from their neighbors and the angel's hand on his lips. When Castiel tries to cover his mouth, Sam sucks his fingers into his mouth, lightly raking his teeth along the knuckles and fingertips until Castiel feels like he is going to burst.

 

Mysterious human that is he is, Sam is also full of endless tenderness. He is cheerful in the mornings—unless he is nursing a hangover—and he lets Castiel sleep late and curled up to his side as he rereads John Winchester's journal for the hundredth time. When he does finally awake, Sam brushes away his grogginess with feather-light kisses that aren't meant to lead to sex, though they sometimes do.

 

Sam is playful when they are in bed together, often making jokes that make both dissolve into a fit of laughter that earns them the same angry knocks from the next door over. He smiles into the sharp jut of Castiel's hipbones and chuckles sheepishly as he teases Castiel's hardness with his hand until the fallen angel lets out a broken _please._ Sam obliges.

 

And maybe, above all else, that is what scares Castiel most of all. The reverence that Sam Winchester seems to have for him. The way he sometimes looks at him like he can't believe Castiel not only exists, but is lying on his back, moaning and blaspheming because of what he is doing to him. How he studies his body like a textbook and works tirelessly to learn how to please a man after almost thirty years of inexperience in the matter.

 

The way he whispers three secret words into Castiel's ear and makes it sound like a prayer.

 

No, Castiel hasn't forgotten any of their intimate moments. But he remains quiet in the passenger seat as night falls.

 

* * *

 

When they finally reach Iowa, it has been more than three weeks since Sam and Castiel's last kiss. Not that either of them have been counting.

 

Certainly, Sam has not been day-dreaming of the fallen angel's lips tracing paths along his torso, torturously slow until finding their way between his legs. He hasn't been thinking that it's been weeks since he's played his favorite dangerous game of coaxing Castiel into sex in the most inappropriate of places. The last place was a supply closet in a police station where they were posing as FBI agents. Sam had had to hold his suit jacket over the crotch of his pants for the remainder of their visit, hiding the evidence of their tryst.

 

No, Sam has certainly not been thinking about Castiel and his perfect mouth and gorgeous eyes and the way his stare makes Sam feel like he's already naked. Not at all.

 

Except that, of course he has, because how could he not? This thing with Castiel is getting out of hand, Sam knows that. It had begun as a way to cope. Cas, for all his former unfathomable power, had been Dean's best friend. Something more, actually, as he had found out a few days ago. The former angel was the closest thing to Dean and Sam had been so distraught, so lost, so unbelievably alone that he had made a drunken, stupid mistake. He'd made the same mistake a few years ago with Ruby and here he was again, confusing desperation with love.

 

This thing with Castiel makes him feel guilty. Like he's taken something that doesn't belong to him. Sam is not an idiot, of course he knew about the unspoken, unresolved tension between the angel and the man he had raised out of Perdition. When his brother was alive, Sam thought of the angel as nothing more than a friend. Well, a hurricane of celestial power inside a human vessel, but also their friend who had constantly defied Heaven in the name of free will. And Dean Winchester. The loyalty the angel showed to Dean never bothered Sam. At least not enough that he'd ever admit it out loud. But if he had laid awake at night wishing for his own guardian angel, well, no one was the wiser. And if his thoughts sometimes lingered too long on cerulean eyes, no one had to know but him.

 

This thing with Castiel makes Sam feel alive. When it started, it was sloppy and wrong and deep down, both men knew that they were using each other as replacements for an indescribable loss. And that was more than okay with Sam. Until it wasn't. Now, Sam dreams of Castiel and his graceful movements even when a part of him wants to rip him apart for rejecting him.

 

He misses the warmth of the angel's touch, the solid weight he can wrap his arms around; the weight that lulls him to sleep. He misses the way he felt an unreasonable lightness the past few months, the way he couldn't keep himself from smiling for too long.

 

He no longer sees Lucifer's cage in his nightmares. Though the loss of his brother is still a dull ache in his heart, it is no longer a fresh wound.

 

And it is Castiel's fault. It is Castiel's long fingers and slender torso that have taken away the pain. It is the way he looks at Sam when they are in bed, or on a case, or simply walking side by side on the way to the Impala. Sam can't describe this look. He can only say that he looks at him like he is important. Like he matters. It drives Sam to the edge. It makes him want to keep pulling Castiel into supply closets, hold his hand when there's no one around, jump in the shower with him when he least expects it. It makes Sam feel giddy and nervous. It makes him want to let everyone in the world know that Castiel is his.

 

But he is not, the angel has made that clear. Castiel is not his, and maybe he never was.

 

It's been three weeks since they last made love and the ache in Sam is getting wider and wider and he feels heavy like a stone. So when they finally reach Iowa, Sam leaves Castiel dumbfounded in their motel room and drives away to the nearest bar.

 

Sam finds himself in a crowded roadside bar, mind hazy after too many whiskey shots. He is blinking rapidly, a poor attempt to keep out the drowsiness that has settled. He yawns loudly and shifts in his barstool, nodding when the bartender asks if he wants another one. His thinks of Castiel, sitting alone in their room (with two beds, this time) and all the unspeakable things he wants to do to the angel when he returns.

 

It is only when he has downed his final shot that he notices her.

 

She has been staring at Sam for most of the night, but deep in his brooding, he has not paid attention to her.

 

She finally catches his eye and sees her opening. She slinks her way through the crowd, her movements calculated and enticing, like a jungle cat circling her prey. She wears a black leather jacket and tight, dark jeans. Her hair is shoulder-length and golden and her lips are painted a shocking red against her soft skin. She stands in front of Sam, looking him up and down, until she finally speaks.

 

“I've never seen you here before,” her voice is raspy and low in contrast to her almost angelic features.

 

Sam looks into her light blue eyes and something inside him stirs.

 

“That's 'cause I'm not from here,” he responds, his voice coming out even and smooth despite how light-headed he feels.

 

“So you're a travellin' man, huh. Just passing through?” the woman asks.

 

“You could say that,” Sam drops his voice as low as it can go and he feels accomplished when he sees the woman shiver.

 

“My name's Lola,” she lies, obviously.

 

“Dean,” Sam says quickly, holding out his hand for her to shake.

 

Lola takes his hand, smiles sweetly and says, “that's a nice name.”

 

Sam's eyes leave her face. He looks down at the bar, feeling shame and confusion and wishing he'd thought for one second before he just opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to his mind. If he'd done that, he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. He would be in a motel room with Castiel in his arms, instead of at a bar chatting up some girl just because she had blue eyes.

 

He's lost in his thoughts again, so he doesn't feel Lola slide up to him until she is placing her small hand on his shoulder. When he turns to look at her, she tilts her head up, an obvious invitation for him to kiss her. The alcohol is coursing in his system and her light touch awakens a fire in his stomach. Sam leans down and kisses the stranger, pushing down the feeling of guilt at his betrayal. She reaches up to stroke the back of his head as their kiss deepens and Sam feels a sudden boldness. He pours all his anger with Castiel into Lola and their kiss and before he knows it, they are outside of the bar.

 

The night sky hangs above them, threateningly low and dark. Sam and Lola stumble their way into the parking lot, barely parting to breathe or walk. When Sam leans Lola's small frame against the hood of the Impala, Lola gasps and gently stops their kissing. She pushes him back and Sam wonders if this is as far as he's going to get tonight. She steps back and lets out a long whistle of appreciation.

 

“This is your car?” she asks, breathlessly.

 

“Yeah, it is,” Sam says, snaking a hand around her waist to pull her towards him.

 

She smiles up at him and suddenly she doesn't seem like a devious barfly. Lola looks like an innocent little girl and Sam thinks that maybe it's time to end this. He feels too drunk, too frustrated. His thoughts are dwelling on Castiel and Dean.

 

Lola kisses him again and Sam is losing himself in the taste of her until she tilts her head up to whisper softly in his ear, “what's wrong, Dean?”

 

Sam can't help himself. He is disgusted with the situation he's created for himself but there is a growing bulge in his pants and he can't deny his need any longer.

 

“Nothing,” he says. “Come home with me?”

 

She smiles up at him, beaming, “Sure, travellin' man. Take me home in the morning?”

 

“Of course,” he says.

 

Fifteen minutes later and Sam is struggling to fit the keys in the door to the motel room while Lola is giggling softly. She leans her head against his shoulders to keep herself up and Sam finds himself laughing, too. He is feeling a growing sense of affection for this small girl along with the attraction he's felt since the bar. He stops trying to open the door and kisses Lola again, lifting her off the floor easily. The moment is broken by the sound of the door knob turning.

 

Castiel opens the door, clad in plaid pajama pants and a faded t-shirt. He is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he sees Sam and Lola still wrapped in a kiss. Sam stops kissing Lola, lets her down suddenly and locks eyes with Castiel.

 

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, voice rough with sleep and anger.

 

“I'm sorry,” Lola stammers, “I didn't realize you were staying with someone. You should have told me, Dean.”

 

“ _Dean?_ ” Castiel asks, frowning. His voice cracks with emotion.

 

Sam looks between Castiel and Lola, looking very much like a deer caught in headlights. The fallen angel shakes his head and walks back in the room, leaving the door open.

 

Sam finds a boldness once again. He takes Lola's hand and guides her into the room, undeterred. After shutting the front door he kisses her again and they collapse onto his twin bed. Sam lets his hands wander over her body, pushing off her jacket and settling on her waist. Castiel shifts in his own bed and Sam hears him. He pushes on though, oddly exhilarated at having an audience. Sam is losing himself again in the smallness of Lola and her high-pitched sighs so he doesn't hear the creaking of Cas' bed as he gets up. He does hear the thud of the bathroom door and feels a pang of guilt as Lola kisses his neck. A few minutes later, Castiel reemerges and turns on the light of the room.

 

“Get out,” Castiel deadpans, the look on his face betraying the emotionlessness in his voice.

 

“No,” Sam retorts.

 

Suddenly, Castiel is behind him, pulling him off Lola and shoving him harshly against the wall. Sam is still drunk and unsteady on his feet, and he collapses onto the ground. The room spins around him and he feels dizzy. He barely registers Castiel telling Lola that he called a taxi when the beam of headlights stream through the window of the room. Castiel hands Lola a wad of cash and slams the door after all but pushing her through it. Then, he trains his eyes on Sam.

 

Sam is expecting a fight. He is expecting Castiel to pick him off the ground and punch him square in the jaw. He probably deserves as much.

 

Cas strips off his t-shirt and pants with such purpose that Sam finds himself frowning in confusion despite the twitch he feels in his dark jeans. Before either man has a chance to reconsider, Castiel lifts Sam and shoves him onto the bed. He climbs in after Sam, straddling him. He grabs Sam's shirt collar and pulls him up with tame force, so that they are face to face again. Castiel leans down and kisses Sam's parted lips and feels a desperate tightness in the pit of his stomach as he watches his eyes shut.

 

Castiel's fingers work to unbutton Sam's flannel shirt but he finds trouble keeping his hands steady. But then, Sam is there, helping him release the buttons and tugging off the shirt to reveal tanned muscle underneath. He admires the sculpted hardness of Sam's chest, golden and taut beneath his own hands. He falters for a second when he catches the familiar sight of the anti-possession tattoo the Winchester brothers shared but quickly returns to his mission: to make Sam feel good.

 

He shoves Sam back onto the bed and slides down, sucking, kissing, and licking his way around Sam's torso.

 

“Cas - ” Sam gasps when he feels him quickly undo his zipper.

 

“Shhh,” The angel commands. When he hears the soft thud of Sam's head on the pillow he continues to pull down his jean, taking boxers along with it, leaving him completely naked.

 

Cas holds in a groan at the sight of Sam's hardened cock. He presses a kiss to the tip that makes Sam let out a breathy sigh and then runs his tongue along the shaft, teasingly. He feels Sam shudder as he takes him fully into his mouth.

 

If Sam can tell Castiel is still angry with him, he doesn't show it. Instead, he is a writhing, groaning mess, fisting the sheets and gasping for air. Castiel's hands are sweating and he feels desperate for the hunter.

 

He is trying to find the right rhythm and position when his tongue darts over a sensitive spot on the underside of Sam. Sam bucks wildly, his head leaving the pillow and arching to look down. His eyes roll back with lust at the mere sight of Castiel, the debauched fallen angel, taking his length into his mouth. Plump, pink lips wrapped around him. Blue eyes staring up at Sam with a mix of wonderment and fury.

 

The hot heat and wetness of Castiel's mouth, combined with the ingenious motions of his tongue and the way his cheeks are hollowed, sucking Sam earnestly, makes it impossible for Sam to last.

 

He  jerks suddenly and Castiel finds himself trying to swallow his bitter, white seed. Sam's orgasm has caught him by surprise, though, so he is left with much of the sticky substance on his mouth and face. He tentatively looks up at heavy rise and fall of Sam's chest.

 

 _Beautiful,_ he thinks, even though he can still see the marks of corruption from Sam's demon blood addiction and from being used as the vessel for Lucifer himself. Even though he is still livid and hurt, frustrated at both Sam and himself.

 

Castiel is drawn from his thoughts by Sam pulling him up and wiping his mouth with his own discarded shirt before kissing him deeply.

 

“I'm sorry,” Sam whispers, wrecked and vulnerable in the wake of his orgasm.

 

Castiel kisses away the apology from Sam's mouth, still eager and unfulfilled. His own body is aching for release and he finds himself between Sam's legs. Sam rolls his hips agonizingly slow against Cas' erection and the fallen angel moans at the friction. His body has missed Sam but he ignores his own need and places another rough kiss on the his lips before going to the bathroom.

 

Sam falls asleep to the sound of the shower. He sleeps soundly for the first time in three weeks.

 

* * *

 

“It took you long enough.”

 

Kevin Tran, prophet of the Lord, leans against the last pew in the dilapidated church and looks up at Sam and Castiel through half-lidded eyes. He looks too tired for his young age, dark circles under his eyes and too-pale skin speak of sleepless nights and months spent in hiding. His words echo in the large, empty structure and the acid tone repeats in the hunter and the angel's ears.

 

“We've been looking for you. You were pretty hard to find, you know,” Sam says by way of excuse.

 

“Right,” Kevin responds with derision. He looks between the two men in front of him and shakes his head before sighing. Sam and Castiel shift nervously under the younger man's disbelieving gaze and Sam finds himself wondering whether the prophet's translating abilities extend to humans. He wonders in Kevin can see right through the two feet of space the two men have placed between them and sense the awkward tension.

 

As is their custom, Sam and Castiel have not discussed the events of the previous night. They silently gathered their belongings from the motel room and exchanged troubled glances, but no words left their lips. Sam's head is filled with both apologies and anger alike. Castiel, on the other hand, is wholly exasperated. It has almost been a year since his Fall and human emotions still confound him. He knows what he feels for the younger Winchester is beyond friendship or brotherly affection but he can't bring himself to say the words he feels in his heart.

 

They had driven in silence to the abandoned church that had become Kevin's secret hideout from the King of Hell.

 

“Well,” Kevin begins, pushing off of the pew and walking down the long aisle towards the altar, “I have a present for you guys. All that time I was Crowley's prisoner. You know, all that time you _weren't_ looking for me,” at this, he pauses to shoot Sam and Castiel a scathing look before continuing, “Crowley had me translating a tablet he found. A demon tablet.”

 

The three men stop after reaching the front of the church. The hunter and the fallen angel sit on the opposing front pews. Kevin narrows his eyes in suspicion at the sight of Sam shaking his leg nervously and Castiel staring a hole into the ground. Sam perks up when he notices the young prophet has stopped talking and is now openly staring at them and frowning in confusion.

 

He urges Kevin to continue, “umm, so what happened?”

 

“I escaped,” the Prophet responds. “I ran for a while, but now, I've kind of set up shop here.”

 

“Did he do anything to you?” Castiel speaks for the first time, rough voice echoing.

 

“Nothing permanent,” Kevin shudders, and then adds, “He did give me this haircut.”

 

“So what's this present you have for us?” Sam ventures, wanting to clear his mind of the image of Crowley as a barber.

 

At this, a smile spreads across Kevin's face and he looks like a young man again, full of promise and hope and potential. He looks as innocent as he did before he became an unwilling prophet, before he met the Winchesters. Sam feels an urge to protect the bit of innocence Kevin has left.

 

“You're gonna like this. The tablet Crowley had me translating? The demon tablet? Well, it's got step-by-step instructions on how to close the gates of Hell. Forever.”

 

Kevin crosses his arms and smirks triumphantly and the silence that settles into the room is only broken by the sound of Sam still shaking his leg anxiously.

 

“Let me get this straight, Kevin. You figured out how to close the gates of Hell. That's what you've been doing here this whole time?” Sam asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

 

“Well, not exactly,” Kevin admits, “I haven't translated the instructions yet, I mean it's not exactly a walk in the park. But I know that it's one of the things the tablet says. I thought you guys would be freakin' thrilled about this? Isn't this the solution to all your problems? And mine? No need to worry about demons if they're all locked away, right?”

 

Sam and Castiel look at each other for the first time since they entered the church. Kevin sighs loudly at the exchange and interrupts them with a question.

 

“What the hell is going on?”

 

The two men look at Kevin as he continues, “I figured out how to close the gates of Hell and you're looking at me like I just killed your puppy or something. Where's Dean? I bet he'd be happy to hear this.”

 

“Dean's dead,” comes the deadpan answer from the fallen angel.

 

For the first time, Kevin is speechless.

 

“Oh,” he stammers, “That's...umm...I'm sorry.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam responds. “Listen, just get your stuff and let's head out of here. You'll be much safer with us. I'll contact Garth and see if he's heard anything about this.”

 

Kevin nods and walks out of the main hall of the church, heading towards one of the back rooms where he hides his belongings and sleeping bag.

 

Castiel stands and walks up to the altar. He stares up at the wooden figure of Jesus Christ, forever crucified and trapped in a crumbling, empty building. There are no pious church goers to fill the rows and listen to a passionate sermon now. Now, there are only two men to look up in wonder at the sacrifice one man made for all mankind. Both men have no faith in the benevolence of God and the righteousness of the message. They know too much about the minds of angels and the emptiness that comes with mindless acceptance and obedience. These men chose freedom over peace and it has cost them everything.

 

Sam looks at Castiel and wonders exactly what thoughts are flying through his head at the moment. He thinks perhaps Castiel is bitter and lamenting the day he was charged with raising the Righteous Man out of Perdition. Or maybe he mourns the loss of his grace and wishes more than anything that he could return to his home and be among his brothers and sisters once again.

 

Sam doesn't know that Castiel is thinking of him. He is thinking of how the son of God had once made the ultimate sacrifice for love of man and how thousands of years later, Sam Winchester had done the same thing.

 

Sam clears his throat and brings Castiel out of his blasphemous thoughts.

 

“We can't let him do it.”

 

Castiel turns from the altar and looks at Sam who is still sitting in the wooden pew.

 

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks.

 

“I mean we can't let him translate that tablet. We can't let him close Hell.”

 

Castiel brows knit together as he ponders Sam's words. Understanding is slow to come but when it does, it hits him like a lightning bolt.

 

“You think that's where Dean is,” Castiel states.

 

“You said yourself he wasn't in Heaven. And we've been following every lead. It's a dead end every time.”

 

Sam leaves out the fact that the two men have not been searching for Dean since they found each other.

 

“I don't think that's what Dean would have wanted. Even if he's in Hell, he wouldn't want us to pass up an opportunity like this,” Castiel surprises himself. He has always been practical about everything, except when it came to Dean. And here he is, possibly locking him in the most putrid and terrible place imaginable. For eternity.

 

“No,” is the only thing Sam can think of to say. “No.”

 

Castiel sighs and opens his mouth to continue his argument but before he can say anything, Sam is in front of him, invading his personal space. For a second, Castiel cherishes the closeness of Sam's body and the inches Sam towers over him so that he is forced to look up to meet his eyes.  Castiel feels a shiver run down his spine as he remembers how many times the two men have stood together like this, in the few seconds before the storm envelops them and pushes them the last few inches it takes for their lips to meet, their hands to touch. Sam's shoulders are trembling slightly and Castiel knows that he is struggling to keep it together, struggling to push down the emotions that are overwhelming him once again.

 

“Sam,” Castiel begins softly and slowly, the way one approaches a wild animal. “Even if that's where Dean is, you know I can't bring him back. Not anymore, not like this.”

 

Sam looks down at Castiel and breathes deeply, trying to calm himself. He feels the levees breaking inside him at the thought of his brother, suffering endless agony and torture, once again because of his failure.

 

Sam wants to wrap himself in Castiel's willing body, his soft skin and sharp bones. He wants to lean down and close the little space between them and lose himself in Castiel's warm mouth and forget about everything. He wants to ignore the clench in his chest when he remembers the simple truth that Castiel doesn't love him. He never will. The one person who does is trapped in eternal lakes of fire and Sam now wishes more than anything that it was him in his brother's place.

 

“We'll find a way,” Sam says through gritting teeth.

 

Castiel doesn't reach out to touch Sam, though his hands itch for the contact. He doesn't continue arguing, either. He whispers _oh, Sam_ before he walks towards the hallway Kevin disappeared into.

 

Sam pretends he doesn't hear him.

 

* * *

 

Sam Winchester finds himself sitting outside a dirty motel room for what feels like the millionth time in his life.  He is sitting on the curb next to his brother's beloved car, head in hands, struggling to keep his composure. He cannot allow himself to break down. He cannot let this thing beat him. More importantly, he cannot let a particularly clever prophet figure out how to close the gates of Hell.

 

Sam is not even sure why he's so upset. He'd known that Dean being in Hell was the most logical conclusion after Castiel's return from Heaven. He'd also surmised that with his only supernatural ally now essentially human and no longer powerful, the likelihood of rescuing Dean was slim to none. Sam knows that this time, he has really lost his big brother. So why he is suddenly feeling like he can barely breathe is a mystery to him.

 

He shakes his head, trying to clear away memories of Lucifer's cage and the knowledge that his brother is probably experiencing the same kind of torture. He tries to ignore the overwhelming sense of failure he feels. He tries not to let his thoughts drift to clear blue eyes and a rough voice.

 

He tries.

 

Sam wishes he could talk to Bobby. The man who had helped raise him was wise and straightforward and Sam is certain that Bobby would know exactly what to say. He'd probably say something vaguely insulting. He'd tell him to stop acting like a lovesick puppy and keep his head in the game. Keep focus.

 

Sam can hear the sounds of Castiel and Kevin Tran talking in worried tones inside of the motel room, and he knows that they are probably discussing his abrupt exit minutes before.

 

He sighs deeply and reaches into his jeans' pocket to pull out his cell phone. He dials the only number he can think of and waits patiently as the ringing begins.

 

Keep it together, Sam. The thought repeats itself in his mind like a mantra.

 

“Talk to me,” comes the voice from the other end of the line. Sam is taken aback by the authoritative tone coming from Garth Fitzgerald. The tall and lanky man that had helped Sam and Dean on a couple of cases is not exactly known for his professional demeanor. _But,_ Sam thinks, _a lot of things have changed._

 

“Garth, it's Sam.”

 

“Winchester,” Garth says, sounding much more at ease, “how's things?”

 

“I wanted to know if you've found any leads or anything on Dean,” Sam states, the words sounding strained.

 

“Been a while since you asked. Thought you stopped looking,” Garth says, endearingly tactless.

 

“Have you?” Sam asks.

 

“Of course not,” Garth says, adding, “but I haven't found anything.”

 

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

 

There is an awkward pause in the conversation, a respectful silence from Garth and a worried lull in Sam's train of thought.

 

“Hey, where are you now?” Garth asks suddenly, as if he's just remembering something.

 

“Iowa. Had to help out a friend.”

 

“Oh that's great,” Garth says, smile in his voice, “think you could do me a favor?”

 

Sam doesn't respond immediately, but Garth knows he'll do whatever he asks so he continues.

 

“There's some rumors of some rogue hunter 'round those parts. Normally, I wouldn't really worry about it but the rumor is he's working with some shady company and it's kind of piqued my interest.”

 

Sam has to smile at Garth's wording. “Sure thing, Garth. Give me the details.”

 

Sam is thankful for a distraction as he takes in the information Garth spouts rapidly. He has a goal now, a mission, and he is going to throw himself into it.

 

* * *

 

“He's been out there for a while.”

 

Castiel watches Sam from the motel room window. Sam is currently on the last beer of a six pack he bought and drank in quick succession and sitting on the hood of the Impala. Despite his unusual height, Sam looks every bit the lost boy, head hung low in defeat, hair obscuring his eyes.

 

Castiel is fighting every fiber of his being, willing himself to stay still, to not chase after Sam. He has seen him like this before. He will be drunk and furious. He will be almost intolerable in his rage and pain and Castiel will want to give him anything he wants and now is not the time for that.

 

The fallen angel is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't notice Kevin speak again. “You should go talk to him.”

 

Castiel turns from the window to look at the diminutive prophet lounging in the pull-out couch, wrapped in a motel robe. Castiel doesn't want to think about what kind of horrors Kevin must have been through that sleeping on a lumpy mattress and wearing a scratchy robe is considered luxurious.

 

“I don't think he wants to talk to me.” Castiel can't help the melancholy tone of his voice.

 

Kevin snorts. “Maybe not, but you sure look like you have something to say to him.”

 

Castiel is taken aback by the young man's intuition and wisdom and for a moment he wonders if he heard him correctly. The prophet merely raises an eyebrow, goading him into action. After a moment of staring, Kevin rolls his eyes and shifts on the mattress so that his back is to Castiel.

 

When Kevin hears the motel room door finally open and close, he stands up and pads lightly over to it. He replaces the line of salt at the edge and shakes his head as he walks back to the couch.

 

Outside, Castiel walks intently towards Sam. His mind is disorganized; he is struggling to think of the right words and the correct pattern to put them into. He doesn't know what to say to calm the storm in Sam but he desperately wishes he did. Maybe the words will roll off his tongue, like possession.

 

The moon is low and full—a harvest moon—and the night sky is lit up eerily. Clouds obscure the stars and a chilled breeze blows making both men shudder despite the layers of clothing they wear.

 

Castiel reaches Sam, though the other man doesn't acknowledge his presence. He throws his empty bottle in one swift and athletic movement. The glass shatters behind them.

 

Sam finally looks into Castiel's eyes; they are at eye level since the hunter is sitting and the angel is standing. No words magically come to Castiel's mouth but he feels an stab of pain in his heart when Sam's eyes start to water.

 

Castiel reaches up and cups Sam's face with his hands. He rubs Sam's cheekbone gently with his thumb. The last time he did this, it was after the first time Sam let Castiel inside him. Sam had felt vulnerable and open, and afterwards, he let Castiel pacify him with his elegant hands and bright eyes.

 

“Sam,” Castiel begins quietly, his voice coming out in a croak.

 

“Don't - ”

 

“Sam, you are drunk.”

 

Sam's lips purse. “Don't start with that - ”

 

“Sam,” The angel is more forceful now. He needs Sam to hear him. “You scare me.”

 

Sam's eyebrows furrow in confusion. “When I'm drunk?”

 

Cas sighs, steps a little closer and tries again. “All the time.”

 

Sam lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling slightly.

 

“You scare me,” Castiel continues, “because of Dean. What I felt for Dean was...strong and confusing. But what I feel for you is...”

 

Sam meets Cas' eyes again with difficulty. There is a heaviness to his words and Sam feels like he needs to sober up but his mind is still clouded with sadness and a slight dizzy feeling. He tries to listen to closely.

 

“What I feel for you is not. It's not confusing, anymore, Sam. But it is overwhelming.”

 

He tries to smile at Sam but the action is awkward and his face looks pained.

 

“Sam, you are the most amazing human I have ever known. Everything that has been done to you, everything that you have endured should have made you a monster. But, instead, you wake up every morning and you try to do good. You are remarkable."

 

The corners of Sam's mouth twitch and Castiel leans in to place a chaste kiss on his lips. When he pulls back, both men smile softly.

 

“Even after all _I_ have done to you, you still find it in your heart to say that you love me. And I hurt you, Sam. I am so, so sorry.”

 

Sam arms instinctively grasp the angel's hips and pull him closer and their foreheads meet. They breathe in the scent of each other in deep, shaky breaths.

 

“You are dear to me - ” At the sound of Cas' voice breaking with emotion, Sam can no longer contain himself. He kisses Castiel fiercely, tugging on the lapels of his jacket to pull him flush against his body. Castiel kisses back, tilting his head and letting his eyes fall shut, wondering how he had let himself go without this for so long.

 

When Sam finally speaks his voice is rough. “I've missed you.”

 

“I've missed you, too.”

 

The night sky rumbles above them, a warning of the coming storm, but the hunter and the fallen angel continue kissing each other.

 

Castiel hopes that this kiss is telling Sam everything he needs to hear because his mouth still can't form the words, even though his hearts thumps against his chest with the feeling he can't put a name to.

 

Sam, for his part, kisses hungrily, unaware of the rain drops that are starting to fall or the turmoil raging inside Castiel. He only knows that Castiel is hhere, kissing him with those full lips and running his slender fingers through his long hair and Sam cannot bring himself to pull away or steady his pace because _Castiel is here_. He is here, again, offering him salvation and place to grieve and what can he do? What can Sam do but kiss back and claim? What should he do?

 

Castiel whimpers when Sam's grip on his hips becomes uncomfortably tight and Sam suddenly stills. The angel tries to kiss again but Sam pulls back and lets the rain come between them.

 

“I'm drunk,” Sam says, as though the fact was unknown.

 

Castiel frowns and leans forward again, wanting so badly to return to those few minutes of nothing but their lips sliding against each other and the gentle sensation of light raindrops.

 

“No, Cas, stop. I'm drunk.” Even as he begs him to stop, Sam is leaning towards Castiel. He is bent forward, their faces just mere inches away.

 

“It's okay,” Castiel soothes although he is unsure of the problem. They had kissed and fucked many times while Sam was intoxicated both with sorrow and alcohol. In fact, in the beginning of this...thing, Sam often needed the assistance of liquor before he got up the nerve to approach the other man. So why that suddenly matters now, when they were so damn close to getting back to each other, Castiel is unsure. He pecks a light kiss on Sam's forehead, making him look up at him, and dives into his mouth again.

 

Sam pulls back again, although the task is getting harder and harder. “I'll hurt you, Cas. I'm drunk and I'll hurt you and I don't want to do that.”

 

Castiel understands Sam's hesitation. “If that's what you need, Sam, it's alright. Do whatever you want - ”

 

“Castiel,” The angel jerks at the use of his full name, as if stung, but Sam continues. “Listen to me. I don't want to hurt you like that. I don't want to be rough.”

 

He brings his hands from Castiel's hips to cup his face, imitating the gesture he had approached him with. “I don't want to hurt you, I just want to, to...”

 

Castiel surges forward, kissing Sam deeply, understanding the words unspoken. “Me, too,” he replies, and he is surprised with just how true such a simple statement can be.

 

Sam doesn't resist now—can't being himself to—not when Castiel is implying that he wants this just as bad as he wants it. Not when Castiel is using his lips and fingertips and body to heal what aches so sharply in Sam. Not when the angel is like a sandy shore, a steady ground, after months of nothing but swaying wooden ships and an endless, dark sea.

 

The rain falls harder now, distractingly so, and Sam pulls back from Castiel's beckoning mouth to huff out a small laugh. Castiel smiles back, relieved. “We should get back inside,” he says.

 

“No,” Sam protests, “I don't want to go just yet.”

 

“We can't stay in the rain.”

 

Sam grins, a dim imitation of his former happy smile, but the sight still warms Castiel's heart. Sam stands up and grabs his wrist, tugging the former angel along to the backseat of the Impala.

 

They fall into the pristine leather seat rather inelegantly and the result is a tangle of soaking wet limbs. Sam struggles to arrange the pair more comfortably but the drunken haze of his mind has yet to clear fully.

 

It is Castiel who takes the lead, pushing the larger man to rest horizontally along the backseat, his back pressed up to the passenger side door. Sam sits awkwardly, legs half drawn up and arms barely fitting in the seat. Castiel looks down at him with a fondness building in his chest and he places a chaste kiss to Sam's forehead before shrugging off his wet jacket, tossing it in the front seat, and fitting himself against the muscles of Sam's torso.

 

They lie together in silence, content to simply hold each other after torturous weeks of physical distance. Sam breathes in the heady scent of Castiel's messy and soaked hair, nuzzling against the top of his head and letting out a contented sigh.

 

Castiel focuses on the comforting feeling of Sam's chest against his back and the warmth that comes for being enveloped in his strong arms. He hasn't felt this feeling of belonging since before he was sent to lay siege to Hell and raise the Righteous Man, when he was still just another part of the infinite Host. Here, the beat of Sam's heart thumps so loudly that Castiel can feel its vibrations through his back and he wraps Sam's arms even tighter around himself.

 

“Sam, are we okay?” It's a question that once would have struck Castiel as trivial and utterly unimportant, yet he asks earnestly. He wants to know that their period of separation is over and that they can return to morning kisses and sneaky hand-holding.

 

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam murmurs affectionally, his voice muffled, “We're okay.”

 

They fall asleep holding each other, cramped and folded uncomfortably in the Impala but unwilling to move, unwilling to risk this newfound understanding and sense of peace. In the morning, just as the day dawns, Castiel finally untangles himself from Sam and kisses him awake.

 

They smile softly at each other. They don't talk about it. They don't need to.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks of relative bliss pass before they discover the rogue hunter Garth spoke of is none other than Dean Winchester, arisen from the grave—or Purgatory, to be more exact.

 

They find him hunting a ghoul five hours from their motel room. Dean is covered in blood and God knows what but he hugs Sam anyway. The younger brother embraces him just as tightly, perhaps even more so, and blinks back tears.

 

Castiel steps from behind Sam's shadow to offer a slight head nod in greeting and Dean swallows hard before embracing him, too.

 

Dean doesn't offer details of his escape and they don't push. He will tell them when he is ready.

 

It is on the long drive back to the motel room where they left Kevin that Castiel's gaze meets Sam's hazel eyes through the rearview mirror and an unspoken heartbreak passes between them. It has to stop. No more kisses or less-than-discreet fucks. No more sweet whispers of affection.

 

Castiel is surprised that it affects him so. Struggling still with the wide range of human emotion, he sinks into a kind of depression he has never known. The kind that settles after a period of happiness once thought endless is proven transient.

 

He sits in the backseat of the Impala, prophet at his side, and lets the brothers bond again. He makes sure to take the seat that allows him view of Sam's profile.

 

Three months pass by, torturously slow.

 

They are sitting at a diner, as usual, regaling Kevin with the details of their latest hunt. Sam is sitting next to Dean, his lips pursed and his brows furrowed, barely containing his anger. Dean is gesticulating wildly while Castiel remains silent, knowing that Sam's anger is directed at him.

 

“I can't believe you did that, Cas,” Sam interrupts Dean's tale, his voice shaking with anger.

 

“It was necessary,” Castiel replies icily.

 

Sam snorts. “It was fucking reckless and you know it. You used yourself as bait. You could have been killed.”

 

Castiel stares at Sam evenly, not backing down. “I wasn't. Everything is fine.”

 

Kevin and Dean exchange confused looks when Sam stands up suddenly and stalks out of the diner. Castiel slides out of the seat, a minute later, and follows him.

 

They meet in the alley next to the diner. Sam presses Castiel against the wall, their bodies melt into each other, their hands grasp for purchase. For closeness. Their touch is violent, part explosion of frustration and part need to feel loving hands once again.

 

“Don't ever do anything like that again, understand?” Sam spits out, but his hands are touching every part of Castiel, as if he needs to reassure himself that he is really here.

 

“Sam, please,” Castiel begs brokenly and Sam tries to force himself away.

 

“You know that I can't,” Sam grits out, wanting so badly to give in. They are already so close. All he has to do is lean in and meet those soft lips once again.

 

“He doesn't have to know,” Castiel whispers. Sam goes rigid. It hasn't struck him that he could hide this from his brother. He has been too caught up in his sadness.

 

He considers what he and his brother have been through and decides he doesn't want to lie to him. Not anymore. Not when he's finally got him back.

 

“I can't,” Sam sighs, the fight draining out of him as he finally loosens his grip on Castiel and backs away.

 

Sam turns his back to Castiel and starts to walk back towards the diner but Castiel stops him. His hands grab at Sam's shoulder and he says the only thing that he has left to stay.

 

“I love you, Sam.”

 

Castiel thinks it might be too little, too late. He thinks the entire thing is utterly ridiculous. Is he a disloyal man, for falling for Sam after having once longed for his brother? Is this what humanity is, nothing but betrayal and confounding emotions?

 

It doesn't matter. The words are true. Maybe Dean was his first foray into human affection, maybe he would always be his biggest weakness, but the younger Winchester is the one who dared to offer him the broken pieces of his soul. Sam is the one who put him back together, who smiles that easy smile of his.

 

Castiel loves him for it and if that makes him an awful human being, well then - he wasn't really the best angel, either.

 

“Do you really mean that?” Sam says, his back still turned and his voice strained.

 

“Yes.”

 

The word barely leaves Castiel's lips before Sam is kissing hungrily. His hands are cupped around the fallen angel's cheeks and Castiel tugs on Sam's jacket to bring him even closer. They kiss for so long that when they are forced to part for air, they are both panting. Castiel smiles up at Sam, the motion finally coming naturally to him and Sam is in awe of how his eyes crinkle.

 

He kisses him again. He has no choice. He is powerless to resist Castiel or his declaration of love.

 

As their lips meet again, Sam is aware that this is yet another secret that has the power to threaten his relationship with Dean. But he can't bring himself to dwell on it because Castiel is kissing him back so honestly, so openly, and all Sam can do is surrender.

 

From the opening of the alleyway, Dean watches them, so engrossed in their kiss that they don't notice him. He walks away.

 

* * *

 

“Sam, it's okay with me, you know.”

 

The words don't make any sense. Sam and Dean are crouching outside under the cover of trees and nighttime, watching a large seemingly abandoned barn that they suspect is the home of a vampire nest. A few vamps have wandered outside every few hours, clearly keeping an eye on their surroundings.

 

“What?” Sam asks. He thinks he might have missed something, but then he remembers that they have been sitting in silence for a while.

 

Dean takes a deep breath, refuses to meet Sam's eyes. “You and Cas.”

 

Sam's stomach bottoms out. He thinks that they have been so careful. They haven't fought in front of Dean or Kevin in weeks and the only time they touch each other is outside their motel rooms when they are sure the other men have gone to sleep. There is the one time that Sam was knocked unconscious by one of Crowley's henchmen and Sam woke up to find himself being cradled by Castiel, his face barely a breath apart from his own. He thought that might have looked suspicious.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

Dean makes a grunt of disbelief. “Whatever, Sam. I just want you to know that it's okay with me.”

 

Sam tries to stop the grin that split his face, a nervous reaction.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks tentatively.

 

“Yeah. To tell you the truth, I got someone else on my mind,” Dean answers cryptically.

 

Neither Winchester say anything more on the subject after that. They settle back into mission mode, the only words exchanged that night relate to the vampire nest.

 

If the battle with the vampires is over remarkably fast, it is mostly because Sam is anxious to get home.

 

* * *

 

There is no end to their story, at least not yet. The four men still battle the evil that threatens the world and their own demons. It's the only way they know how to live and though Sam used to hate the life of a hunter and yearn for normalcy, he now finds that his life is more than bearable with Castiel at his side. Castiel calms and grounds him with a steady hand and a willing heart and there is no way to describe how Sam feels other than to say he feels cleansed.

 

Dean disappears for days at a time under the pretense of _it's none of your business, Sam_ but lately he has confided in them that he is visiting an old friend. A good friend.

 

“His name is Benny,” Dean's voice sounds far away and dreamy. Sam sees the spark in Dean's eyes when he speaks of his friend that gives away his true feelings.

 

He is inwardly ecstatic that his brother has another chance at happiness. He thinks that no one deserves it more.

 

The initial awkwardness of being open about their relationship has worn off and Castiel smiles widely at Sam when the larger man bumps their shoulders together on the walk back to the Impala. Sometimes, they even hold hands in public again, though not when Dean is there. His exaggerated eye rolls are enough of a deterrent.

 

They sneak around still, less for Dean's benefit and more for the thrill it gives them.

 

The world is still dark and in need of protection but Sam and Castiel have found a certain peace with each other. And maybe their story isn't the most epic love story ever told, maybe it's not full of daring rescues and impossible odds. Maybe it isn't remarkable.

 

Maybe it's just a story about two friends who helped each other grieve and fell in love. But that doesn't make it any less lovely, any less human, any less true. It's a story about love and those are always worth telling.   
  
  
  



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